If you’ve not read it and you are at a crossroads in your life or relationship or self then I think this is probably the book for you. Funny that somehow, though I am getting a lot done here in New York alone, I feel as though I a married to time traveler. Normally I don’t put most personal things on my blog, preferring to sit behind a nice veil of social commentary and random begs for someone to read my fiction, but today is different.
If I could be clear as to why I’m here and my mate is over there, then I think I’d probably have my own show and not be working for a living. I’d be animated on camera, getting my nose de-shined during commercial breaks and assure my team that next week we’d get the sweep on writings. Alas, I write to you from my couch. In front of the television, contemplating how to make the current screenplay’s transition work a bit more smoothly than it does, trying not to be nervous on the reading of my first play in over five years, wondering when the work will translate into paper. And trying to figure out why I feel so akin to Clare in “The Time Traveler’s Wife”, waiting for my mate to pop in from somewhere in the past or immediate future (because the distant is the most unknown) and wondering if that appearance will be enough. I’ll not stand my expectations up to other people’s sense of “normal” (my girl Maritri has a fantastic song on that one - Voygage in the Village on Mondays 8pm - check it). I read my mate’s work as though I’m on the outside. He is completely social on the keyboard with everyone but in person adorably awkward and professes most closeness to me, which is kind of flattering and disturbing given I feel like I can see him from the other side of the ocean.
For years I have adored the wrong men. The ones who are unavailable, distracted, figuring things out in a solitary manner, shamed in their oblivion. Recently, while flirting with a cute guy, I realized he was the younger version of the cute, irresponsible, vacant, absent, oblivious older version I dated five years ago. A cycle! A cycle I don’t like!
Most days are harder than others, being separate like this. Today is hard one. Like Clare, I wait for either a wounded mate who needs me or a mate who’s come from some place joyous that wouldn’t translate in words so therefore I must have infinite trust that it was, in fact, joyous. Don’t get me wrong. I am enough for myself. But if you are going to have gravy, you want it to be outstanding gravy.
Perhaps I’m just moody today, not enough sleep, too many walking lunges, sad about Jena 6 and how people think we should “get the fuck over racism” (please see former America’s Next Top Model’s rant about how we are all one so black people need to get over racism - funny demand coming from a white girl who’s never experienced racism)…I am not sure. The root probably came from reading the comments from Curry’s page and how many white people concurred that she was just saying what most white people were thinking and then my heart broke. Tirelessly defending and critiquing my generation, my people, my art, my man, my friends, the world…it seems to be an easier choice to time travel than to be the one putting one foot in front of the other. But then I don’t find I have any other choice.